


you knock me out, I fall apart

by orphan_account



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7747804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christen can count off hand around a thousand things that Tobin does on a daily basis to knock her speechless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you knock me out, I fall apart

**Author's Note:**

> all I seem to be able to write lately is one shots! sorry about that, I'll try to update poison and wine as soon as possible.

Christen can count off hand around a thousand things that Tobin does on a daily basis to knock her speechless.

That’s an approximate number, of course. She hasn’t really taken the time to count yet, although she did try one day to keep track of every single instance. This became problematic because some things just blurred into each other, and Christen realized that minutes of struggling to keep her breathing level and her eyes distracted and her skin cool could count as one or perhaps one hundred different instances. She gave up around 11 a.m.

There’s the early morning texts, the ones that are completely unexpected until they become almost second nature — mostly screenshots of inspirational quotes, poems by r.m. drake, Bible verses that fit the mood of the day. Sometimes, when they’ve been apart for too long, it’s a sunrise, with no caption, no context, and Christen wonders what Tobin is thinking about as she watches the sun slowly glow into existence, ushering in a new day.

There’s the morning greetings at camp, the easy way she’ll steal a sip from Christen’s coffee before going to pour her own, always looking down appreciatively with a nod and a small smile.

“This is good,” she’ll say, and Christen will scoff, raising her eyebrows.

“If it’s good enough for me, I’m sure it’s good enough for you,” Christen will almost always respond, and Tobin will laugh, raising her hands in her own defense, dropping her phone in the space by Christen’s elbow to claim her place before strolling off to fix her own mug.

There’s the way Tobin touches Christen, wrapping her up fully in both arms with a hug from behind, pressing her hand on top of Christen’s wrist during a huddle, catching her and lifting her off the ground after scoring a goal. There’s the way she squeezes her arm gently after a bad game, listening to every frustration that Christen could possibly voice, quieting each of her fears.

It’s mostly a series of subtleties, Christen thinks, until it isn’t that subtle at all anymore. And that’s when it becomes something that she can’t stop thinking about. At all.

Of course, Christen’s brain is kind of always like this. She practices constant mental self-control because it’s too easy for her thoughts to stray and then obsess, and her mind moves quickly enough that sometimes she’ll lose track of it. Playing catch up with her own thoughts is both exhausting and relentlessly frustrating. So she’s learned to adapt, to focus, to clear out everything that isn’t necessary and then to categorize that which she needs most. It’s a process and a lifestyle. It keeps her calm.

Tobin kind of wrecks that. And she does it in such a quiet way that Christen really doesn’t have time to do anything, and suddenly one of her best friends is consuming half her thoughts and half her mind.

So she does her best. She compartmentalizes. She suppresses. She distracts. And she tries to keep her eyes from flitting down to Tobin’s mouth — because honestly where the _hell_ did that instinct even come from — every time they’re talking with their heads rested close, arms brushing.

On the field, it’s easy. On the field, the ball is her heartbeat and her teammates are her life support and everything revolves around the rhythmic pulsations of the game. And she buries herself into this feeling, wraps it around herself when her mind is full of mindless wandering and wondering. And it’s okay. It’s all okay.

And then they’re all sitting in a haphazard group on the floor of a hotel room with a case of beer and a few bottles of cheap wine, and they’re playing Truth or Dare because apparently the presence of a high schooler in their midsts has turned half the team into dumb teenagers again, and Tobin has her hand on the floor behind Christen’s back and her bicep is brushing her side and Christen’s head is getting fuzzy from the fourth beer of the night that she’s cradling in her hand.

And it’s stupid. It’s all stupid. It’s not okay.

Because Megan grins devilishly at her and wiggles her eyebrows before saying, “Kiss the prettiest girl in the room.” And they’ve _done_ this before, multiple times, and Christen knows how this is supposed to go. Normally, Ashlyn would press a chaste kiss to Ali’s cheek and earn a few sweet smiles from the girls. Rapinoe would actually kiss herself, just planting a kiss on her own arm and arguing loudly with anyone who tried to contradict her decision. Becky thought it was hilarious to plant one on Hope’s head, praising her as “the most beautiful brick wall she’d ever seen” as Hope half-heartedly groaned and swatted at her. Tobin used to just loop an arm around the shoulders of Amy and Lauren and press loud kisses to both of their faces until they pushed her away.

And Christen, well, normally she’d press a quick one into Kelley’s hair and laugh as the girl gloated. Which is what she should do tonight, except that the beer makes things a little too hazy and Kelley is halfway across the room and instead she leans into Tobin without a second thought.

Her mouth is open a little bit and she's _pretty_ sure that she's aiming for Tobin’s cheek, but instead her lips land a little sloppily on the curve of Tobin’s jaw. She can feel the arm behind her back stiffening, the flex of several muscles pressing into her side. But for a second, Christen can't remember exactly how to pull away, especially because Tobin tastes a little like honey, and by the time she drags her mouth away her cheeks are flushed deep red.

Of course, the rest of the room doesn't notice, Megan already turning her wrath to someone else, Kelley dropping her jaw in mock jealousy. But Tobin is looking at her, really _looking_ at her, as if something had just clicked in her head, as if Christen had answered a question that she hadn’t even realized she’d been asking.

Then she turns her head back to the side, and she shouts out a question for Kling to answer as her Truth, and Christen is left to try to keep her mind from spinning out of orbit over the feeling of her arm against her side.

They don't talk about it. Which shouldn’t be weird, because nothing happened, but it is weird because Christen feels like something had happened. Which is what matters, in her head, but probably not what matters to Tobin or to anyone else. But it does matter, or it should matter, to Tobin, because if something is happening on Christen’s end it has to result in at least some type of result on Tobin’s end.

Her mind is a mess, and she can’t calm it down.

Which means that breakfast is even more of an awkward, fumbling mess. Tobin saunters over and reaches down to grab Christen’s coffee, and Christen jerks her head to one side and doesn’t even say anything or look up or breathe because God how did she never notice that Tobin smells like vanilla in the morning? And when she sits down with a full mug and a plate full of food, Tobin doesn’t say anything either, doesn’t add anything to the conversation of the morning at all.

And that’s even more worrisome, and makes it even harder for Christen to compartmentalize every single question ricocheting around inside her skull, so instead she settles for another approach — distraction. She talks to Kelley, she talks to Mallory, she talks to HAO, she even talks to Hope, who looks baffled and a little cornered as she nurses a cup of coffee in one hand and tries to help Alyssa fill in a crossword with the other.

That works for the hour of breakfast, and the half hour of changing into their workout gear, and the forty five minutes of team meetings before training begins. But then Dawn says that they’re just lifting today, and then she gives out lifting partners and of course she’s paired with Tobin, and then they’re spotting each other on bench press and all Christen can focus on is the way sweat is gathering in the curve of Tobin’s throat and _that’s_ certainly not appropriate at all.

But averting her eyes just means that Tobin clears her throat and then taps her leg, wordlessly, until she looks back down and nods for her to start the next set.

It isn’t until their last rotation — back squats, which Tobin works through quickly, her hands idly readjusting several times before she cranks out each set effortlessly — that Christen processes the fact that she hasn’t heard the midfielder say a single word today. The silence weighs heavily, mainly because it means _something,_ and it means that last night means something, and oh God she can’t even let her brain get started on what the repercussions of that might mean.

They aren't talking. They aren't really touching. They're skating around everything that might involve a genuine interaction, and although Christen keeps catching Tobin’s eyes on her, she can't shake the feeling that Tobin is waiting for something.

Dawn has them end the day on boxing, something that Christen can't be more appreciative of in this moment. Tobin grabs the pads, holding them up, and Christen listens carefully to the pattern — left, right, left, right, right, slip, right, left, hook.

She lets the confusion fill her arms, her fists, and it fuels each blow, which slam into the pads to knock Tobin backwards slightly on her heels.

“Nice.” It’s the first and only syllable that Tobin has spoken to Christen the whole day, and it hits her in the stomach harder than any combination punch could. She’s knocked breathless, and in the second that she lets her eyes flit up, catching the fullness of Tobin’s broad smile and her easy stance, the way her arms flex slightly as she holds the pads, she barely hears the new combination that Dawn shouts out. 

Tobin lofts her pads, and Christen begins to pound out the same punches, and then Tobin is lifting her arm to send a gentle blow for Christen to slip under because it’s a goddamn new combination and it took her until now to even realize it and her fist is still traveling where the pads were held right in front of the midfielder’s face.

Christen tries to pull her fist back. She really does. But the momentum of her shoulder carries the glove through, and the next thing she knows the room is collectively letting out a yell of surprise as Tobin stumbles backwards, her hand over one side of her jaw.

“Good Lord, Press.” Dawn stalks across the room, dropping a hand onto Tobin’s shoulder and examining her face. There’s a slight drip of blood coming from her lip, which is split open. Tobin looks up, her eyes meeting Christen’s for a moment.

“Tobin, I’m so sorry, I fucked up the combination, I seriously—“ She’s waved off, Tobin already shrugging her shoulders.

“Chris, you’re fine.” Tobin smiles at Dawn. “Mind if I go clean up?”

She leaves and Christen shifts from foot to foot, peeling off her gloves, guilt sinking into her stomach as Dawn calls practice to a close and sends them on their way to the locker room. She lingers too long, spending an inordinate amount of time packing away her bag and smoothing her hair into a ponytail and fiddling with her shoes until finally, finally she realizes she’s going to have to face this at some point or another. 

So Christen squares her shoulders and walks into the training room. She's met with the image of Kelley and Tobin talking quietly, the defender on a table with her ankle wrapped in ice, the midfielder pressing a cold pack to the side of her face.

“There she is!” Kelley hops down from the table, shadow boxing an invisible opponent. “Rocky Balboa! The Italian Stallion! Gearing up for her next fight again the one and only Apollo Creed in this epic—“

“Shut up, Kell,” Tobin deadpans, and she winks at Christen — is winking actually a thing that people _do_? — dropping the cold pack to her side. Her face softens at the clear mix of panic and concern in Christen’s eyes. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“Going from kissing her to hitting on her, huh?” Kelley peels off her ice, tossing into the trash can and then tossing a few more jabs at Christen before dancing out of the room. “Making good progress, Press!”

Tobin just rolls her eyes at the comment, but Christen can’t help but feel a lurch in her stomach at the thought of kissing Tobin, and hitting on Tobin, and she feels breathless, she’s falling apart and she needs to get words together and—

“I’m sorry for kissing you,” Christen spits out. “Not kissing— I mean, I didn’t really kiss you. I mean, I was dared to, so like I wasn’t choosing to do it, and it wasn’t a big deal, but today’s been weird and maybe I’m just weird but I’m sorry for—“

“So you think I’m pretty?” Tobin is smirking and it’s driving Christen _insane_ and she wants to kiss that expression right off her face and she doesn’t even care about how out of place and preposterous that idea is.

“No— I mean yes.” Christen’s words are fighting her, and Tobin is taking a cautious step in her direction which is yet another detail she’s attempting to ignore. “I mean, obviously you are. You’re beautiful. Like as a teammate. You know, just, I can notice things like that.”

“You think I’m pretty.” Her world is caving in slightly from the side because Tobin is standing in front of her and just staring. She’s not saying anything more, not moving forward or back, and all the push and pull is left in Christen’s hands. 

“Yeah.” She’s lost, she’s tumbling to one side and her voice is soft as hell because she’s lost the strength to fight back against this. “But like I don’t want to be weird, because I think you’re great and you are one of my best friends and God I know I’m a lot to handle but—“

Tobin shuts her up in the best way possible, with a hand on one hip and the other buried in her hair and her mouth soft and gentle, soaking in every panicked word and calming Christen’s breath with a kiss. For the first time since the night before, since she tasted the honey of Tobin’s skin, Christen’s mind goes still.

She kisses back, and for minutes or maybe hours her thoughts are quiet, her heartbeat still, as she focuses on sliding her arms around Tobin’s waist and tugging her closer.

(it’s actually only 57 seconds. exactly. it feels like a lifetime to both of them.)

Tobin pulls back and Christen lets out a shaky gasp, already missing the touch of her lips.

“It’s okay.” Her thumb traces over Christen’s jaw, and she swears to God she melts into her a little more. “I would’ve kissed you, too.”

This time, it’s Christen who leans in, and she presses Tobin back a step, her hands more firm on Tobin’s hips, guiding her gently up against the trainer’s table. Tobin’s hands are in her hair and she lets out a breathy little moan, the type that Christen feels up her spine and all the way down to her toes. She lets a few of her fingers brush against the skin under Tobin’s shirt, then grows braver and slides her hands all the way up, tender against her rib cage.

Tobin lets out a deeper noise, tugging at Christen’s hair, and without thinking Christen smirks into the kiss, nipping at her bottom lip. Almost immediately, Tobin jerks back with a curse, grabbing at her mouth.

“Good God Christen, lay off of this lip, will you?” Her fingers press against the swollen skin, testing for fresh blood.

“Shit,” Christen mutters, watching with some strange mix of amusement and concern as Tobin nurses the split lip again. “Sorry.”

“You’re good.” Tobin kisses her again and Christen is smiling widely, hardly able to keep their lips together through the force of her grin. “We’re good.”

And then Tobin is dragging her closer, kissing the smile off her mouth, and Christen can only suck in her breath through her nose, pushing Tobin back further and sinking into this moment and—

“Tobin?” Christen pulls away. “You’re bleeding.”

She just laughs, touching her lip where it’s slightly bloody. Christen’s breath is ragged but her mind is quiet and her fingers are wandering. She leans her forehead against Tobin’s, letting her hands trace up and down her arms, thumbs skimming across her biceps.

“Are we good?” Tobin’s response comes in the form of a contented hum from the back of her throat.

“Yes.” And she presses a kiss to Tobin's jawline, in the same spot where she dragged her lips the night before, as she sinks into the girl’s response. “We’re good.”


End file.
